


Seconds

by one_windiga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clothed Sex, Experimentation, M/M, Science Experiments, naked versus clothed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_windiga/pseuds/one_windiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's somewhere between funny and quite pathetic that John never really stops being surprised. He would have thought that after the time their bathroom tub was filled with dead squid, he might have clued in on this distressing normality that Sherlock was accustomed to. Or maybe when he saw Sherlock climbing out of their second-floor window on a rope made entirely out of carefully woven hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seconds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entangled_now](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=entangled_now).



It's somewhere between funny and quite pathetic that John never really stops being surprised. He would have thought that after the time their bathroom tub was filled with dead squid, he might have clued in on this distressing normality that Sherlock was accustomed to. Or maybe when he saw Sherlock climbing out of their second-floor window on a rope made entirely out of carefully woven hair. If none of that had helped, then the squirrel merrily boiling away in the kitchenette, filling the entire building with the stench of dead rodent and bubbling lye ought to have done it, regardless of how much Sherlock insisted that the skeleton he produced from it was an invaluably perfect specimen.

John was starting to suspect Sherlock actually enjoyed seeing him make that awkwardly pinched face he tended to make when he saw these insane projects. In fact, he was fairly sure of it. But that didn't mean he could stop. It wasn't that he'd thought Sherlock was _above_ the antics he got up to when John wasn't around, God no. That was like thinking a seven-year-old boy was above filling the pipes with bubble bath or stuffing frogs down the trash compacter. That wasn't hope, it was pure delusion. Sherlock was no more above his experiments than a fish was above swimming. It was more that every time he saw it, a tiny part of him was shocked that he had managed to take his insanity to strange, terrifying, truly disastrous new heights that John had never before thought possible and would surely think he could never surpass again. Dead squids? What could be worse than dead squids? And then would come the boiling squirrels, and John would once again be surprised.

And so it was that when John unlocked the door to their little flat and trudged up the stairs only to see Sherlock standing stark naked in the kitchenette, he didn't dismiss it as Sherlock being Sherlock, but was yet again surprised.

The keys fell to the floor in a jangle that sounded rather upset.

Sherlock turned around lazily, with the same sort of casual normality that he carried around him in a miasma of terrible assumption. He didn't seem to think much of the fact that he was naked, and judging by his expression, John almost couldn't be sure he'd even _realized_. He was munching on a piece of toast that John had toasted three days ago, only to abandon it when Sherlock distracted him enough that he scorched it beyond hope. But it was easily accessible, it was still vaguely edible, by some definition, and Sherlock hadn't been forced to cook it himself, and that just about satisfied Sherlock's requirements for food. John stared at him helplessly, unable to put together a proper sentence out of all the many, many choices of protests he had, simply because the sheer number of ways this was _wrong_ was overwhelming.

The most ridiculous part of it, John thought, was that he was still wearing his socks. Completely naked, not a stitch on him from the mess of curls on his head, down his chest, not even a pair of boxers over those skinny legs, but those _socks_. Cheap, boring, white with little gold ends on his toes, completely practical for the man who simply couldn't or wouldn't ascribe to the possible uses of aesthetic socks when they were obviously only meant to provide warmth to one's extremities. He was naked and he had socks, and John thought it was a little bit horrifying that he wasn't sure whether the socks bothered him so much because they were _all_ Sherlock was wearing, or because he still had them on.

"They'll have the Jubilee line up and running by Monday," Sherlock said with the same sort of dismissively casual attitude he wouldn't have used to talk about the weather, because he never talked about the weather unless it had done something to offend him, but rather the sort of tone he would have used to close a case.

And that was distracting for a moment, because he _had_ been put off track, had been planning to take the tube on the Jubilee line from Westminster, but they'd held up the trains for the weekend maintenance, and he'd been forced to change trains three times to get around all of the stops that were out of commission.

"Yes, I suspect they will, but that won't b-" he broke off abruptly when he realized that he was having a conversation with a naked man. " _Where are your clothes?!_ "

For a moment he actually suspected that Sherlock had been trying to take his mind off of the glaring nudity with his usual deductive magic, but that was stupid. Beyond the fact that Sherlock was about as close to discovering human reproduction through asexual binary fission as scientifically possible, there was - well, no, that was pretty much it. But it was a pretty hefty reason.

The even reply was "In my closet, of course, like a civilized human being."

And John really should have seen that one coming, but he was already 0 for two this afternoon. So instead of throwing up his hands, walking back out the door, and ridding himself of the lunacy in his life, he found himself stalking over to Sherlock. "Yes, but most civilized human beings prefer to actually use their clothing, not just keep it in the case of emergencies."

Sherlock calmly took another bite of toast.

"You haven't shown any proclivity towards - look, stop eating that!"

"This is my lunch. And possibly last night's dinner." Sherlock's woeful survival instinct never ceased to rear its head. "Why should I stop eating it?"

"Because you're going to make yourself sick!"

"It's old toast, John, it hasn't been injected with Ebola."

"Because it's - oh, God, I'm doing it again. Why am I talking to my naked roommate?" The question seemed just as much directed at himself as Sherlock, who was clearly to blame for this.

Sherlock, of course, gave no helpful answers. All he did was quirk one eyebrow upwards and grace John with that maddening smirk of his. What exactly did he think he was doing? Was this some kind of game? It was that damn smirk, it was the one that made John want to smack him, but suddenly for some reason he didn't so much want to smack him as he wanted to grab him, hard, and not let go. And possibly it was that today had been very frustrating, his tensions were high and all of his wires were crossed, and his anger was exerting itself in unusual, atypical fashions. That was probably what his therapist would say.

God, John was glad he quit seeing her. It was possibly the tension, but it was frankly much more likely the fact that he was standing very, very close to his very, very naked friend. Sherlock was all angles and pale lines, from the tilt of the cords in his neck past his flat stomach and all the way down to those ridiculous socks. Pasty skin, soft and unlined, and John wanted nothing more than to feel it, every inch of it, until his fingers could map out the shape of him even in the dark.

It was startling, his desire, but it was the smirk that did it. That smirk that just goaded John on, _dared_ him to just try and _do_ something.

So he did.

There was no collar, no shirt to grab onto, so he wound his fingers into Sherlock's hair and pulled. The kiss was hard, not at all proper or delicate, but Sherlock made that pleased noise he had a tendency to make when John figured out a problem, so he figured he must be doing something right. Sherlock's lips were smooth against John's, oddly so, and he needed more.

There was only so much space in a mouth, and John had to explore it all. He could feel the push on his lips that would probably bruise tomorrow, and it thrummed through his veins, leaving him pressing for more. When John scraped his teeth against Sherlock's lower lip, he finally parted them, and then he was feeling, tasting, touching everywhere, but it couldn't be close enough. Sherlock's hands found their way to John's chest, sliding lightly up to his shoulders, and John yanked him closer.

He wasn't sure if that was the most brilliant or the most idiotic move he could have made. Suddenly there was heat everywhere, smooth skin up against the fabric of his clothing, altogether too alarmingly warm to be denied. He could hear the rasp of denim against Sherlock's thighs, and it was only too easy to feel through his jeans that he wasn't the only one caught up in the electricity. He couldn't stop the groan that curled up his throat when Sherlock pushed against him.

And then they were stumbling, hurrying gracelessly backward towards the bedroom, catching each other's mouths when they could, as best they could without falling over. There was a faint beeping noise at the edge of John's hearing when they shoved open the door. When John felt the edge of the mattress slicing into the backs of his thighs, Sherlock's hand slipped down to quickly unbuckle his belt. He kissed Sherlock's jaw by way of thanks and shoved his boxers and jeans down to his knees in one tangled mass of fabric that he couldn't bring himself to care about right now.

They went sprawling onto the sheets, and he couldn't help but think that this was terribly unfair, Sherlock already being undressed and leaving him fumbling to catch up. But then Sherlock was climbing over him and reaching between them and doing amazing things with his hands, and John promptly lost track of what exactly he was thinking of. His back arched and he didn't care at all that his shoes were probably tracking mud all over the blankets, because all that mattered was that Sherlock never stopped touching him like that.

It wasn't until later, skin still hot despite the chill of drying sweat, that John thought to roll over and face Sherlock again. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him beneath tangles of curls, even messier now than his usual standards.

"Did you hear that? Before, at the - at the door, that sort of beep?"

Judging by the vague 'mm' noise that earned John, the question didn't even merit real words.

"What was that, then? Did you leave the microwave running?"

"Of course not. It was a stopwatch."

"A what?"

"A stopwatch," he repeated, apparently not having grasped yet another societal nuance.

"Yes, but for wh- ... this was an experiment."

"Quite."

John sighed out, letting his head fall back onto the pillow as he closed his eyes. "An experiment in what, pray tell?"

"How long the mammalian brain takes to allow the sexual id to overcome other priorities."

There was a long pause as John parsed that sentence out and pondered its implications. "I see." Sherlock had actually, honest-to-God, timed how long it took for John to jump him. He flicked a brief glance back to Sherlock before curiosity overcame his indignation. "... How did I do?"

"Seventy-eight point four seconds."

This time the silence was lighter as John watched the ceiling for a moment. "Seventy-eight seconds."

Sherlock cast him a smirk and rolled so that his breath painted a line of shivers across John's neck. "Not bad at all."

And perhaps this was the night John stopped being surprised.  



End file.
